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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23298850">Funny Thoughts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RovingOtter/pseuds/RovingOtter'>RovingOtter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Joker (2019), Taxi Driver (1976)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Phone Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:09:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,148</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23298850</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RovingOtter/pseuds/RovingOtter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Travis have a conversation.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Travis Bickle/Arthur Fleck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>85</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Funny Thoughts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This takes place between chapters 12 and 13 of People Like Us, but can be read as a one-shot.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arthur’s legs ache.  He stretches out on the couch, wincing at the pop in his left knee.  It’d loud, like a tiny firecracker going off.</p><p> </p><p>Lots of people, he knows, don’t think of clowning as a real job.  From the outside, maybe it just looks like playing around.  But it’s <em>work.  </em>When he gets home at the end of a long day, his muscles are sore.  And having to smile and act happy all the time is its own sort of exertion.  When he's Carnival, he isn't himself, exactly.  He's playing a character.</p><p> </p><p>It’s worth it if he can make a few people laugh—that’s what he’s here for, isn’t it?—but that mental shift doesn’t always come easy.  Especially when he’s having a hard day.</p><p> </p><p>Today was a hard day.</p><p> </p><p>He writes in his journal:  <em>Some people hate clowns I guess.  I dont really understand.</em></p><p> </p><p>When he’s out in public doing a gig, he gets the occasional jeer from passers-by.  Once in a while someone will throw something at him.  Today it was a half-full paper cup of grape soda.  He didn’t even see the person who threw it, but he heard their laughter as the car blasted past.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes, when things like that happen, he feels a dark, poisonous bubble of anger forming in his gut.</p><p> </p><p>He writes, <em>Im just trying to do my job.  Why does that make some people angery?  Or is it funny to them?</em></p><p> </p><p>His jacket is draped over the back of a chair.  There’s a big purple stain on the shoulder.  He tried to scrub it out himself, but it’s still faintly visible.  He’s going to have to take it to the cleaners tomorrow.  Which costs money.  He doesn’t have a lot of that to spare.</p><p> </p><p>It’s just soda, he tells himself.  Not worth getting upset about.  He’s been through much worse.</p><p> </p><p>But thoughts have a way of leading to other thoughts, and he finds himself getting lost inside his head, wandering down shadowy paths.  Sometimes, he imagines his own brain as a labyrinth of thorny vines and crackling wires—narrow tunnels leading downward into a secret world where even Arthur himself is afraid to go.  Unseen creatures scamper through the darkness.  Rustling.  Scratching.</p><p> </p><p>He writes:  <em>I just had a funny thought.  The next time I get beat up I cud use my blood as makeup.  But why wait.  I cud cut open a rist.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>He scribbles out the lines.  Dr. Kane always looks at his journal during their sessions.  He knows she’s obligated to report it if she thinks he’s a danger to himself or others.  He has a lot of thoughts he doesn’t dare write.  He scratches at one arm, restlessness crawling under his skin.  He can feel the ripple of a tiny scar there.  An old cigarette burn.</p><p> </p><p>It’s after ten o’clock at night, now.  Penny is finally in bed.  She dozed off after they watched Murray together.  Arthur is alone—or as close to alone as he ever gets, when he’s at home.</p><p> </p><p>He lights a cigarette.  His gaze strays to the phone on the kitchen wall.</p><p> </p><p>There’s no guarantee that Travis will be home right now.  He might be out driving his cab.  He often works at night.  </p><p> </p><p>But Arthur really needs to hear his voice right now.  Needs a friend.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>More than a friend.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>It’s still hard to believe, sometimes, that this is real.  That someone could want him this way.  It all feels so strange, so new.</p><p> </p><p>He goes into the kitchen, picks up the phone, and dials.  He knows the number by heart, now.</p><p> </p><p>Two rings and a click.  “Travis Bickle.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.  It’s me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur.  Hey.”  Arthur can hear the smile in his voice.  “I was just gonna call you.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur closes his eyes.  <em>That voice…</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>He can feel the hum of it deep in his head, in his bones.  He’s always liked Travis’s accent.  It makes him sound sort of tough, but in a friendly way.  “How was your day?”</p><p> </p><p>“The usual.  Some kid threw a milkshake at my cab.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really?”</p><p> </p><p>“Happens every so often.  It’s easy to clean.  Better than scrubbing cum off the seats.”</p><p> </p><p>“I guess so.”  Arthur’s never had to clean <em>that </em>off his jacket, at least.</p><p> </p><p>“You?”</p><p> </p><p>“My day…wasn’t very good.”</p><p> </p><p>“You wanna talk about it?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s silly.”  Especially since a similar thing happened to Travis, and he doesn’t seem to care.  “I mean, it’s not a big deal.  I just think too much, I think.  It doesn’t take a lot to ruin my day.”</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me.”</p><p> </p><p>He sighs.  “Someone threw a cup of soda at me.  When I was working out in front of a store.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a heartbeat of silence.  When he speaks again, his voice has gone flat:  “You get a look at his face?”</p><p> </p><p>“No.  It was no one I knew.  Just some guy driving past.”  He takes another drag on his cigarette.  “It didn’t even hurt.  Just…shook me up.  Stupid, I know.”</p><p> </p><p>“There’s always that split second.  You see something flying at you from the corner of your eye and your brain doesn’t know if it’s a milkshake or a brick.  Or a grenade.  You feel that jolt.  And it takes a while to come down from that, sometimes.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur swallows, mouth dry.  “Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>One time, someone actually <em>did</em> throw a rock at him.  A big one.  He wasn’t hurt—it missed his head by a few inches—but that was more luck than anything.  Now, every grape soda is a potential rock.</p><p> </p><p>Somehow, just knowing that Travis understands calms him.</p><p> </p><p>“I wish it didn’t bother me so much,” Arthur says.  “I mean, you have to deal with the same thing in your job.  Lots of people do.  I know I’m whining—”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not just about the soda, is it?”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur stares into space.  He thinks about the teenagers who beat him up and left him in the alley.  That isn’t the first time Arthur’s been attacked by strangers.  It’s not just when he’s dressed up as Carnival, either.  It was like that in school, and in the few other jobs he had before he became a clown.</p><p> </p><p> “A lot of people just...want to hurt me," he murmurs.  "Is it like this for everyone?  Am I imagining things?”</p><p> </p><p>A brief pause.  “No.  I don’t think you're imagining things.”</p><p> </p><p>“I just wish I understood why.  I mean…if it’s something about me…”  He trails off.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s because you’re different,” Travis says quietly.  “And because you're gentle.  There are shitheads in this world who see you as a target because of that.  Because they’re looking for someone to hurt.  This world’s full of filth and scum and—” he stops, takes a breath.  Reining himself in.  “It’s not your fault, is what I’m saying.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t <em>try </em>to be different.  If I could change myself to be normal, I would.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want you to change.  Not for them.  Not for anyone.  You hold onto your soul, Arthur.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur closes his eyes.  “I’ll try,” he whispers.  “You too.  Okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“I traded mine in a long time ago.”</p><p> </p><p>“You always say things like that.  But I don’t think it’s true.  You have a good soul.”</p><p> </p><p>Travis makes a noncommittal sound.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re the only one who stopped to help me that day,” Arthur points out.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not like that cost me anything.  And I think I had selfish motives for that.”</p><p> </p><p>“How do you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hard to explain.  Don't worry about it.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur hesitates, biting his lower lip.  “You know, I thought about you today,” he says at last, quietly.</p><p> </p><p>“I think about you every day,” Travis says.</p><p> </p><p>“You do?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.  Sometimes I just kinda space out while I’m driving.  You drift into my head.  It happened today.  I got so into it, I nearly rear-ended someone—had to slam on the brakes when I heard them honk.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh no.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay, I was going slow.  Wasn’t really in danger, I just felt like an idiot, after.  Daydreaming on the job—bad habit of mine.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur finds himself absently rubbing his own chest through his sweater.  “What were you daydreaming about?”</p><p> </p><p>“Just…being with you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is that all?”</p><p> </p><p>A brief pause.  “Is your mother asleep?”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur’s tongue creeps out, wetting his lips.  His pulse quickens.  “Yes.  We’re alone.”</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me what you’re wearing.”</p><p> </p><p>Warmth creeps up Arthur’s neck, into his face.  “It’s not…sexy, or anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Doesn’t matter.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m wearing a white sweatshirt with long sleeves.  And pajama bottoms.”</p><p> </p><p>His breathing echoes in Arthur’s ear.  “What kind?”</p><p> </p><p>He glances down at them.  Thin, almost threadbare white cotton.  The pants are baggy, with a pattern of light blue flowers, grown faint from repeated washings.  They’re his mother’s, actually.  When he’s just lounging around the house, he grabs whatever is clean; her things and his sort of blur together.  “Um…they’re just…white cotton.”</p><p> </p><p>“Plain?”</p><p> </p><p>“With blue flowers.”  He twists the phone cord around one finger.</p><p> </p><p>“I like that.”</p><p> </p><p>His face grows hotter.  “What about you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Plaid shirt.  Jeans.  My usual.”</p><p> </p><p>He imagines Travis sitting at the kitchen table in his apartment.  He can visualize it easily.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur leans back against the wall and rubs his hand in a slow circle over his chest, runs it down his stomach.  He’s aware of a tightening beneath his belly.  He closes his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>The memory of their first time together still awakens so many conflicted feelings in him.  He doesn’t know how to sort through them all. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Travis’s hands pushing him up against the wall.  Travis’s rough, hungry mouth against his, those hands pulling up his shirt, the sharp sting as his mouth latches onto Arthur's chest and sucks…</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Arthur’s hand strays to his right nipple and presses lightly.  He shivers, remembering the tenderness of the love-bite Travis left there.  Marking him.</p><p> </p><p>It scared him.  The intensity of it.  The loss of control.  When his heartbeat quickens now, at the thought, he’s not sure if it’s lust or anxiety or both.  His feelings about Travis are too complicated to put into boxes.  But he feels alive—<em>awake</em>.</p><p> </p><p>His gaze wanders down to the erection tenting his flimsy pajama pants.  “So…are you going to tell me what you were fantasizing about?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s, uh.  It’s kinda perverted.”</p><p> </p><p> “I’m listening.”</p><p> </p><p>“Actually.”  He clears his throat.  He sounds suddenly uncertain.  Awkward.  “I feel a little weird about it, now.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur raises the cigarette to his mouth, seals his lips around the end of it, and sucks.  He remembers the firmness of Travis’s cock in his mouth, the way his own lips molded around its girth, the salty taste of precum.  He swallows, reflexively.</p><p> </p><p>He could feel it pulsing in his mouth, he recalls.  As though he held Travis’s heart on his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>“You wanna have lunch together tomorrow?” Travis asks.  “In the diner?”</p><p> </p><p>He’s changing the subject now.  Arthur runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face.  “You’re really not going to tell me?”  He hears a bit of a whine creeping into his voice.</p><p> </p><p>A pause.  “How are you feelin', right now?”</p><p> </p><p>“Um.  I feel…”  <em>Excited.  Nervous.  </em>“Okay.”  He wraps his fingers around his cock, holding it through the fabric of his pajamas.  “I wish you were here.”</p><p> </p><p>“Me too.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve been thinking a lot about that day in your apartment.  The first time, I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?”  There’s a hint of uncertainty in Travis’s voice.</p><p> </p><p>It felt good, but still—they both lost control.</p><p> </p><p><em>I scared him, too.  </em>He knows he did.  That hasn’t stopped him from revisiting every detail of the memory in his head.  Replaying it over and over.</p><p> </p><p>“I like thinking about it,” Arthur whispers.  He gives himself a few slow, cautious strokes.  “Will you…keep talking to me?”</p><p> </p><p>Travis’s breathing is heavier now, too.  His voice changes, going lower.  Thicker.  “Those marks I left on your chest.  Can you still feel them?”</p><p> </p><p>They’ve mostly faded now, but a ghost of the tenderness lingers.  Arthur presses the spot on his chest.  “Yes."</p><p> </p><p>“Touch yourself there.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am.”</p><p> </p><p>“Harder.”</p><p> </p><p>He presses hard enough to hurt.  The little lightning-flash of pain sends a pulse of heat to his balls.  As though the pleasure and pain wires in his head are tangled up.</p><p> </p><p>He pinches his own nipple through the sweater, pulls and twists a little, gasps into the phone.  He starts to moan…then bites his tongue.  His mother is sleeping in the other room.  He has to keep it down.  A strained whimper escapes him.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me what you’re doing right now, Arthur.”</p><p> </p><p>When Arthur is aroused, his voice goes breathy and thin, higher-pitched.  Not Travis.  When he’s really turned on, his voice sounds…hard.  Almost cold.  His breathing is heavy and strained.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m…p-pinching…”  He’s not used to talking like this.  It still feels weird.  “Pinching my n-nipple,” he murmurs in a rush.  Just saying the word <em>nipple </em>out loud makes him want to curl up and disappear.  “I’m no good at this sort of thing,” he mutters.  “I can barely get the words out.”</p><p> </p><p>“I like that you get shy.  I like seeing you squirm and bite your lip.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur gulps, pulse thumping.  He twists his own nipple again.  The pain is a slow, warm tingle spreading through his body.  A drugged heat.  An electric buzz at the base of his spine.  It climbs slowly, slowly toward his neck.</p><p> </p><p>When it reaches his brain, he feels a shift.  His eyes go a little blurry, a dreamlike haze slipping over the world.</p><p> </p><p>A smile creeps across Arthur’s face.  He feels it happening without his volition.  Muscles pulling, tightening.  “You like seeing me squirm?  Is that what you were fantasizing about today, in your cab?”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a pause.</p><p> </p><p>Some part of him recognizes what's happening.  He’s teetering on the edge of a mental chasm, staring into the blackness, and a pair of eyes stare back at him from deep within.  His own eyes, but wilder.  Fiercer.  Teeth flash white and sharp in the shadows.</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t think I was going to forget that so easily, did you?”  Arthur nurses the end of the cigarette.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m just—trying to think about how to explain it.”</p><p> </p><p>“I think you like teasing me.  You’re always holding back.”  Arthur can hear a bit of an edge, a buzz creeping into his voice.  He exhales a mouthful of smoke, watching it billow and snake through the air.  “Do you want me to beg you?  I can, if you like.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s—not like that.”  His voice is unsteady, now.  Off-balance.  “I’m just not real good with words.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve read your journal, remember?  You can be very poetic when you put your mind to it.  What had you so distracted that you almost got into an accident?  What were you doing to me, in your head?”</p><p> </p><p>For a few seconds, there’s only the rasp of Travis’s breathing in his ear.  “I had you tied to a chair,” he whispers.  “In my apartment.  Your hands behind your back.  Your ankles duct-taped to the chair legs.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur licks his lips.  His voice, when he speaks again, is soft and a little creaky:  “That’s what you were afraid to tell me?  I don’t scare that easy.  You should know that by now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.  I guess so.”</p><p> </p><p>“There’s something else, isn’t there?”</p><p> </p><p>Another pause.  “You wanna know?”</p><p> </p><p>Whatever it is, Travis feels guilty about it.  He can tell.  Somehow that makes it more exciting. </p><p> </p><p><em>I like seeing you squirm, </em>Travis told him.  Maybe Arthur is the same way.  Part of him enjoys the thought of Travis confessing something he’s ashamed of.  A repentant sinner throwing the doors of his soul open, spilling every filthy, depraved thought.  His guilt is a collar around his neck, a chain that Arthur can grab and <em>pull</em>—</p><p> </p><p>Arthur seizes his own cock in one hand.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>What am I thinking?  What’s wrong with me?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Images flickers through his head—Travis kneeling before him, head bowed, Arthur’s foot planted atop his head—maybe in a stiletto heel and nylons.  <em>Confess to me...unburden your soul...<br/></em></p><p> </p><p>Oh god.  Where do these thoughts come from?</p><p> </p><p>Arthur bites the inside of his own mouth, hard enough to taste copper.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s just…”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”  The word is faint and breathless.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think you agreed to it.  In my head…you just woke up like that.  Tied to the chair.  You were confused.  A little scared.  But excited, too.”</p><p> </p><p>Oh.  “You kidnapped me?”</p><p> </p><p>“I guess I did.”  A pause.  “I wouldn’t actually do that.  Just to be clear.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur’s hand slides under the elastic waistband of his pants.  “Was I wearing anything?”</p><p> </p><p>Another pause.  “Your clown stuff.”</p><p> </p><p>Oh.  <em>Oh.  </em>“The paint too?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“But no wig.  Because you like my hair.”  A laugh crawls up Arthur’s throat.  He chokes it down.  “You like to grab it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” he whispers hoarsely.  “It was messy.  Like…the first time I saw you.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur’s grin widens a little.  He raises one hand, the one holding the cigarette, and feels the smile with his fingers, feels his lips stretched thin over his teeth.  “How did you do it?  Did you knock me out?  Drug me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh…I dunno.  I didn’t really think through the details of it.  Just started with you there.”  Another pause.  “When I’m seeing this stuff in my head it’s all fuzzy.  Like a dream.  Talking about it out loud…it’s kinda sick, I realize.  My mind goes funny places, sometimes.”</p><p> </p><p>Funny.  Is that the word for it?  It <em>is </em>sort of funny.  It’s all faintly absurd.  Even his own reactions.  Getting hard over something like this.</p><p> </p><p>Arthur stares into space, the cigarette poised between his lips.  “Keep talking,” he murmurs.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not sure I should.  Your voice sounds different.”</p><p> </p><p>“I…”  Arthur stops.  Closes his eyes.  "Does it?"</p><p> </p><p>“I think you’re going under, a little.”</p><p> </p><p><em>Going under.  </em>That’s an apt term for it.</p><p> </p><p>He takes a breath.  “It’s not like before.  I—I’m still in control.  I know what I’m saying right now.”  He does, doesn’t he?  “Anyway...we’re just talking.  You’re not really touching me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I feel like I am.  In a way.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s all in our heads.  Just words.”</p><p> </p><p>“Words are powerful.”</p><p> </p><p>Yes—they are, aren’t they?  Still.  There’s a barrier of space between them.  A cushion.  “I do feel a little…funny.”  His voice cracks on the last word.  “I don’t know why this happens to me whenever we...do something like this.”</p><p> </p><p>“You told me that they used to hypnotize you in Arkham.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.  Once.”  Actually, he's pretty sure it happened more than once, now that he thinks about that.  Arthur enjoyed it.  The attention.  Someone talking to him in a nice, gentle voice...telling him what to do, but not in a bullying way.  Just guiding him.  Steering him gently.  “What about it?”</p><p> </p><p>“I think it’s like that.  I think maybe, sometimes, I put you in a trance without meaning to.”</p><p> </p><p>Can it really happen so easily, he wonders?  Or is Arthur just very suggestible?  “You think I’m in a trance right now?”</p><p> </p><p>“I think you’re still conscious.  But your guard is down.”</p><p> </p><p>“Like having a couple of beers?”</p><p> </p><p>“Something like that.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur cradles the phone between his ear and shoulder.  His hand moves of its own accord; he watches it reach down, palming the bulge in his pants.  “What did you do with me, when you had me tied up?  Did you hurt me?”</p><p> </p><p>A few heartbeats of silence pass.</p><p> </p><p>“I put a hand over your mouth,” Travis says softly.  “To quiet you.  That freaked you out a little.  But then I started talking to you.  Petting your hair.  Kissing you.  Calming you down.  I felt you relax into it.  And I started to touch you.  Gently.  Through your clothes.  Just touching you.  Before long, you were begging me to keep going.  Pushing up against my hand."  For a few seconds, there's only his breathing.  "You wanted it.  But it was like…I made you want it.  Like you didn’t really have a choice.  And because of that, you could surrender completely.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur’s hand moves up and down his cock.  He observes it with detached interest.</p><p> </p><p>“Your head's so noisy most of the time.  I can tell," Travis says.  "Your mind's always racing.  But this time...you let go.  Your eyes went blank.  Like TV screens full of static.  Just feeling."</p><p> </p><p>Arthur leans back against the wall, the phone in one hand, the other hand down between his legs.  He's flushed, sweating.  A little dizzy.  “Did we know each other, in this?" he whispers.  "Or were you a stranger to me?"</p><p> </p><p>“No, we weren't strangers.  You knew me.  You trusted me.”</p><p> </p><p>He giggles, short and sharp.  There's a harsh edge in the sound.  “I guess that would make kidnapping me easier, wouldn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>Silence.</p><p> </p><p>“I…”  He clears his throat again.  “I think...maybe we should stop.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur blinks a few times.  A prickling, cold sensation washes over him.  He can physically feel the shift back—an electric web of tingles starting at the base of his skull, spreading over the surface of his brain.  He blinks a few times.  His vision sharpens and clears.  His chest tightens.</p><p> </p><p>“S...sorry,” he whispers.  "I just ruined it, didn't I?"</p><p> </p><p>“It's not like that.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur stares straight ahead.  His erection has wilted.  A cold lump sits in his stomach.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t like the last few times, he thinks.  He was still in control of his voice.  He was himself.  Or at least, it felt like he was.  And yet—</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't know.  He doesn't know who he is, sometimes.</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur.”</p><p> </p><p>“Y-yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re breathing pretty fast.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur presses a hand to his forehead.  “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.  “I don’t—I shouldn’t—”</p><p> </p><p>“Slow your breathing.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur obeys unthinkingly, automatically.</p><p> </p><p>“Good.  Slower.  Count to three in your head.”</p><p> </p><p>Usually, when he starts to panic, trying to take deep breaths and think calming thoughts doesn’t work.  But somehow when Travis tells him to do it, his body responds. </p><p> </p><p>“In and out.  That’s good, Arthur.”</p><p> </p><p>“I'm still me,” he murmurs.  "Aren't I?"</p><p> </p><p>“You're fine.  You're still you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry.”  He can’t seem to stop apologizing.  It’s a reflex, as deeply ingrained as the flinch when he sees something flying at him from the corner of his eye. </p><p> </p><p>What happened?  They were just having a normal conversation, and then—</p><p> </p><p><em>I made it weird.  </em>He couldn’t leave it alone.  He had to keep pushing and prying.  And then he took it too far.  No wonder Travis balked.</p><p> </p><p>“I, um.  It’s late,” Arthur murmurs.  “I should probably go.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t rush off.  Talk to me.”  After a half-beat, he adds, “Please.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.”  <em>Stop saying that.</em>  “I’m just…overwhelmed.  I feel bad.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur stares at the floor.  He starts to raise the cigarette to his mouth, but he doesn’t have it.  He looks around and notices it on the floor.  He must have dropped it.  He doesn’t remember dropping it.  He puts a hand on his forehead, then on his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“Arthur,” Travis says.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“This is new for me, too.  We’re still learning.”</p><p> </p><p>He takes another deep breath.  Lets it out.  “I know.”</p><p> </p><p>He has to remind himself of that, sometimes.  Even if Travis has had sex with other people—even if he’s more experienced than Arthur, in that way—he’s never had a close relationship with someone.  Neither one of them has a clear sense of what’s normal and what’s not.  They’re both stumbling in the darkness, feeling it out as they go.  Holding onto each other.</p><p> </p><p>"I was enjoying it," Arthur says.</p><p> </p><p>"I was, too.  I just felt like it was getting out of hand."</p><p> </p><p>"It was probably a good idea.  Stopping."  He hesitates.  “Are you okay?  I feel like—like I was being mean to you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You weren’t.  I’m fine.  Just worried about you, is all.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur opens his mouth to say something—he doesn’t know what—then closes it.  It’s always so hard, taking the fuzzy unformed clouds of thought and feeling and shaping them into sounds or markings on paper.  Something is always lost in the translation.  He wishes, sometimes, that he could just open a hatch in his skull and let Travis see what’s inside him.  Let him swim around in his brain. </p><p> </p><p>“I think I stressed you out,” Travis says.</p><p> </p><p>“It isn’t your fault,” Arthur murmurs.  “I had a stressful day.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.  The soda.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s crazy.  It was just a soda.  But it made me think about a lot of other things.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.  You get lost in your head sometimes.  I’m the same way.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur takes a deep breath and lets it out through his nose.  “It’s just good to talk to you,” he whispers.  “To hear your voice.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yours, too.”</p><p> </p><p>He crouches and picks up the cigarette from the floor.  “Will you talk to me some more?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>They keep talking.  Gradually, he relaxes.</p><p> </p><p>Travis tells Arthur about passengers he’s had, about things he’s seen—a fight he witnessed one night between a Gotham super-rat and an alley cat.  “I swear,” he says.  “They were almost the same size.  Pretty sure the rat was winning.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur talks, too.  About recent gigs, about parties, about a new magic trick he’s learning involving a wand that produces a bouquet of flowers.</p><p> </p><p>“And it can do other stuff,” he says.  “Depending on how you tap it, it goes limp or straightens out again—”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.  It’s that kinda wand?”</p><p> </p><p>He laughs—a real laugh—muffling the sound with one hand.  “It’s a magic trick!  It’s innocent fun.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.  I got a filthy mind.  So how’s it work?”</p><p> </p><p>“If I told you it wouldn’t be magic.  I’ll bring it next time I see you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’d like that.  I’ve never seen you do magic.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can do card tricks too.  You can pick one from the deck and I’ll guess it.”</p><p> </p><p>“You can read minds, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“Just for cards.”</p><p> </p><p>When Arthur finally glances at the clock, he realizes that they’ve been talking for over an hour.</p><p> </p><p>“I probably <em>should </em>get some sleep,” Arthur says.  “Mom always wakes up early, and I usually make breakfast for both of us.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I guess I should try to catch a few hours, too.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll see you tomorrow.  Right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Absolutely.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll meet at the diner for lunch?  Like you said?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure.  How’s noon?”</p><p> </p><p>“Noon is good.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll see you then.”  He pauses.  “Travis…”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>“I love you.”  Those words still feel fresh, unfamiliar.  Like a pair of shoes he’s still breaking in.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you too, Arthur.” </p><p> </p><p>A pleasant, warm flutter stirs in his belly.  “Sweet dreams.”</p><p> </p><p>“Same to you.”</p><p> </p><p>Arthur hangs up.  He stares into space for a moment, absently rubbing his stomach, where he can still feel that flutter.</p><p> </p><p>Travis is a part of his life now.  They’ve been on dates.  Visited each other’s apartments.  Travis even had dinner with his mother.  Even if that didn’t go so well, it feels like a milestone.</p><p> </p><p>One of these days, maybe, it will start to feel real.  One of these days he’ll be able to let go of the fear that it’s all in his head…or that it will be snatched away from him at any moment.  That the universe will punish him for the arrogance of opening himself up to love.</p><p> </p><p>He goes into the kitchen to get a glass of water.  As he drinks, he thinks idly about Travis’s fantasy.  About himself in his makeup, hair disheveled, a smudge of dirt on one cheek, tied to a chair in Travis’s apartment.  Thinks about Travis leaning in, covering his mouth with one hand.  Travis kissing him, touching him…murmuring gently in his ear…feeling himself go blank, empty, a vessel for pleasure...</p><p> </p><p>Arthur’s cock rises, stiffening.</p><p> </p><p>He goes into the bathroom, shuts the door, and pulls down the elastic waist of his pants.</p><p> </p><p>Quietly, flushed and panting, he jerks off.  He cums with a short, choked gasp, into the toilet.  He stands, gasping for breath, one hand planted against the wall, watching the pearly string of jizz float lazily through the water.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a confused ache somewhere deep in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe it would’ve been better if he’d finished himself off on the phone with Travis—if he’d given himself over fully to that sweet, dark pleasure.  Enjoyment at the thought of his own helplessness.  Enjoyment at Travis's reticence, and the slow release of it.  If Travis hadn't pulled back...</p><p> </p><p>But another part of him thinks it's better they stopped when they did.  Arthur can’t seem to let down his guard without losing control.  Without getting hurt.  Even though, by now, he and Travis have done things together that make phone sex seem tame.</p><p> </p><p>He flushes the toilet, washes his hands.  Then he sits on the couch, opens his journal, and writes:  <em>Someone threw a soda at me today.  It made me scared and angery.  But I talked to Travis on the phone and that helped me feel better.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>He could leave it at that.  It’s true, anyway.  In spite of the chaotic thoughts swirling in his head, he <em>does </em>feel better than he did when he got home.  Less alone.</p><p> </p><p>After another moment, he keeps writing:  <em>Sometimes the way I feel with him is confuzing and I don’t know if its okay.  I know you read this jurnal Dr. Kane.  So I wonder what you would think if I told you some of the things we talk about.  Maybe you would think its sick.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>Or maybe it wouldn’t provoke much of a reaction from her, one way or the other.  The pasted photos of naked women and skeletons and the angrily scrawled doodles of screaming faces never did.  She looked at them with the same neutral, bland expression someone might give to a tax form.  Either she’s seen it all before or she has a great poker face.</p><p> </p><p>Even so.  There are things he can’t bring himself to put words to, even in the pages of his journal.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>I know I am not normel in a lot of ways.  I dont think I ever will be.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>He tongues the inside of his cheek, where he bit himself earlier.</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Im not hurting anyone by being this way am I?  Travis says I shoodent—</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>That doesn’t look right.  He scratches out the word, tries again—<em>sholdint</em>—and again—<em>shouldnt change who I am for other people.  So maybe its okay to try to be happy the way I am?</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>He turns his cigarette over in his fingers and writes:  <em>I hope thats okay.  But I dont know.  Everyone sez to be yourself.  But if I bee myself what will I beecome?  </em></p><p>
  
</p><p>He draws a smiling bumblebee next to the last sentence, and a knife below it.  He turns the page and draws a big question mark, filling the blank paper from top to bottom.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Alone in the darkness of the living room, he stares into space.  The smell of smoke lingers in the air.</p>
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